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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897184">nor am I weak, but tired</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingnaturalist/pseuds/thewritingnaturalist'>thewritingnaturalist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, If they could stop being awkward for five seconds at a time, Light Angst, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, That could maybe turn into something more</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:14:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>913</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingnaturalist/pseuds/thewritingnaturalist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days after the end of Season 1, Freddie cleans out his desk, and Bel tries not to think about her life without him in it. (Inspired by a prompt from @gaslightgallows September list on Tumblr: "I am no coward, nor am I weak, but tired.")</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Freddie Lyon &amp; Bel Rowley, Freddie Lyon/Bel Rowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>nor am I weak, but tired</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Freddie is cleaning out his desk. For good, this time.</p><p>Slumped over the next day’s broadcast schedule at her own desk, Bel pushes her hair out of her face and tries not to watch him. <em> Manchester Guardian calls for Eden’s resignation. Nuclear power: progress or threat? </em>She notes a misspelling in the margin--compulsively, Freddie would say, and maybe he’s right. </p><p>Even with her back turned, she can feel every move Freddie makes, as if some frequency in his bones vibrates some frequency in hers. Back to the bin, throwing something away. Back to the desk. Tapping his foot on the floor. Back to the bin.</p><p>Thirty minutes ago, Bel had thought she couldn’t bear it if he slapped another folder into the bin, alight with righteous indignation. Now, listening to him aimlessly shuffle papers, she wonders if she preferred the indignation.</p><p>“Tired?” The tinny brightness of her voice rings out, too loud. She watches Freddie stop himself from wincing. She forces the corners of her mouth to keep holding a smile.</p><p>He smiles back. “You insult my journalistic stamina. It’s only ten.”</p><p>He’s lying, of course. She can tell by the set of his shoulders, as if he’s hunching over against a cold draft, and by the way his fingers twitch against the edge of the desk. She’s seen the same signs a hundred times: in grimy alleyways as the boom op fiddles with his wires before a broadcast, over a beer at yet another after-show party. One time he fell abruptly asleep on her couch, trailing off in the middle of a scribbled note on <em>Panorama</em>. (“We’ll never make it if we don’t keep up with the competition,” he had insisted when she suggested <em>Robin Hood</em> instead.) Her first impulse was to elbow him awake, say something teasing about his sloppy work ethic. Maybe it was the pale smudges around his eyes that made her pick up his clipboard and note the rest of <em>Panorama</em> in silence, listening to Freddie’s breathing ebb and flow around the newscaster’s words. </p><p>Freddie dumps the last of his papers into the bin. He runs his hand along the edge of the desk, as if checking for dust. “Actually, I was planning on a night on the town.” His voice is carefully upbeat, energetic. “Stop by a few clubs. Can’t disappoint the ladies.”</p><p>“I’ll come with you,” Bel says impulsively.</p><p>Freddie’s hand stops. His fingers twitch again, once, twice. “<em>Y</em><em>ou</em>, Moneypenny, have a broadcast tomorrow. I, on the other hand, am footloose and fancy-free.”</p><p>“Freddie--”</p><p>He smiles that piercing smile again, eyes crinkling. “Don’t. I’m glad one of us is staying. Just barricade the door next time McCain tries to break in, won’t you?”</p><p>He means it, Bel knows. He’s spent the past four days repeating the same phrases for the black-suited government agents to take down with their shiny pens, like some sort of prayer he learned off by heart:<em> it was my idea, I forced it through, she had nothing to do with it.  </em></p><p>She hopes she would have done the same, in his place. She knows she wouldn’t have done it as cheerfully. </p><p>Freddie drops a few sheets of paper onto her desk. “Notes for the Clarence story.”</p><p>“Thanks.” She flips through the pages. They’re more than notes. He’s somehow spun the whole sordid betrayal to expose Clarence without indicting him, foregrounding the tension between Communist and government agendas, explaining both while taking sides with neither. It’s brilliant writing, sharp, fair. </p><p>Bel scrubs her hand across her face. She’ll have to rewrite it all before the broadcast, of course.</p><p>“G’night, Moneypenny.” </p><p>“G’night, James.”</p><p>Freddie is halfway to the door when a few books slip off his precariously-balanced stack of belongings. “Damn.” He bends to grab them. Loses a few more books.</p><p>“Freddie.”</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t. Just...here.” Bel picks up the books. Stands, awkwardly, cradling them in her hands. Freddie’s stronger than he looks, she knows, but she has a ridiculous feeling that if she stacks these books back on top of his pile, the weight will shatter him like glass.</p><p>“I’ll walk you to your cab,” she says after a moment.</p><p>“You’re the picture of chivalry.”</p><p>They don’t talk as they walk side-by-side down the long hallways, the narrow flights of stairs. Usually, there would be a dozen changes to go over for tomorrow’s broadcast. Tonight, there is just the click of Bel’s heels on the floor, and the whisper of Freddie’s steady breathing beside her.</p><p>The pavement outside glistens, but the rain has stopped. Freddie sniffs the air. “You know,” he says, “actually, I think I fancy a walk.” </p><p>Bel bites her tongue before she can offer him the cab fare. “Don’t get these wet.” She piles the books into his arms, helps him settle them into some semblance of balance. “And get some sleep, won’t you? You look like death warmed over.” In an attempt to be brisk and unsentimental, her voice is almost bossy. </p><p>“Good<em>night, </em>Bel.” Freddie winks at her, a half-ironic attempt at mimicking Hector’s suavity. It’s not remotely charming.</p><p>Bel smiles anyway.</p><p>She watches his slight figure disappear into the distance, the stem of a desk lamp jutting sharply over his shoulder. Even weighed down by books, he still walks with that odd, defiant skip in his step. <em> I am no coward</em>, Bel thinks, the lines coming to her mind unbidden. <em> Nor am I weak. </em></p><p>Then she sets her jaw and walks back into the office.</p>
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